


no stranger to the undertow

by snsk



Series: the undertow [1]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: 'i texted him a couple of months ago', M/M, Slow Build, post-Halloween 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:53:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6530044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk/pseuds/snsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Outside, Ryan said: “You cried during The Notebook.”</p><p>“I was a lot younger then,” Brendon said, dusting a stray kernel off his hoodie. “And everybody cries during The Notebook. Especially you. All four times.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	no stranger to the undertow

It wasn't a problem, anyway, and for a whole month after the party it still wasn't. It was just a niggling thought at the back of Brendon's head. It was just something you couldn't transcribe away into lyrics, an itch that refused to leave until it was scratched. And in that way it was kind of a problem, because Brendon had always been the kid who made scabs out of his chickenpox.

In the end he decided to leave it up to Sarah, because she'd been fixing his shit for the better part of a decade already and had therefore become quite accomplished at it.

"So this isn't a problem," he began, as she slid Thor 2 into their DVD player. It was one of those lazy, humid nights when the sharp, almost LED brightness of the stars made it look like they were contributing to the heat.

"I'm all ears," she said, which meant she thought it might be. But when he told her about it, she just nodded and said "mhm" in all the right places, which Brendon had learned was one of her many, varied talents, and when he was finished she was quiet for a bit and got up off the floor.

"Get off, then," she said.

"Me?" Brendon said, only half-joking. It had been six years, give or take, and he was still expecting her to tell him to get up off his ass and leave.

"No, the dog," she said exasperatedly. Penny looked up at her and made a little huffing noise, but complied. “But you could move your feet, you don’t have to take up two whole sofa cushions.”

Brendon moved his knees up to his chest. She sat down and dug around for the remote.

“You’re right, it’s not a problem,” Sarah said. “Just text him.”

She made it sound absurdly easy.

“I can’t just-” Brendon started to explain.

“Why not?” Sarah said, and Brendon didn’t have an answer that she wouldn’t dismiss with simple logic.

“I think,” she added, “it’s about high time you did, too.” Then she paused, a small moment in time where it sounded like she wanted to say something else, but when Brendon looked up at her fully she just waved the remote at him.

“Are we going to do this or not?” she asked. “Or will Thor have to wait for more of your unnecessary manpain?”

“We’re going to do this,” Brendon said, smiling. He pushed his toes under her thigh. She put her hand on his foot, a safe and manageable warmth. She’d been fixing him for a long time now.

*******

Brendon woke up early the next morning. Bogart circled his feet, hungry, and he bent to scratch at his chin. Penny was probably still curled up with Sarah, who was always saying that their dogs didn’t have favourites, but was extremely wrong. Penny liked Brendon, probably, but would follow Sarah to the ends of the earth. Brendon didn’t blame her in the slightest.

“Hey, buddy,” Brendon said. “Hey hey hey, buddy. What do you think I should do? Blink once for yes. Twice for no.”

Bogart stared at him for a second, then snuffed his hand as a thank you for the kibble, then busied himself with said kibble.

“You’re right, Sarah’s right, I know,” Brendon agreed. “It’s not a big deal. Except for how it’s never not a big deal when it comes to him.” He said it low, like a confession, and maybe it was, although it was something he’d known for a long time now. “But it doesn’t have to be, right, Bo?”

Neither the dog nor the kibble responded, so Brendon pulled out his phone, pulled up the contact he’d saved a month earlier, and texted [ _hey sup_ ] before he could change his mind. Then he put it on silent, took a deep breath and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, hanging by the door, and went for a run.

He’d managed to talk himself out of the weird unnecessary internal panic by the time he got back; this wasn’t a problem unless he made it one, and the only reason he was making it one was because of the mess they’d created when they were younger and more foolish about things, and how badly they’d left it. They were older now, and wiser, hopefully, and he was married and Sarah had done her best with him, and it was high time to let things go. Also Spencer had been dropping hints about it for some time now because the wedding was coming up and he probably didn’t want them to ruin it by making it the most awkward event ever. So they could at least be on civil terms, even friends. Ryan and his friend had come up to them at the party in that ridiculous gremlin outfit, and he’d smiled at Sarah and they’d all politely exchanged numbers, and if he could, then this - moving on, being friends - was also something Brendon could do, because he was 29 years old and a grown up now. And so he jogged back the last couple of steps to his front door, and kissed Sarah in the kitchen and said “Hey,” in affected hurt tones when she pushed him away, laughing about him being sweaty and disgusting. And then he went to retrieve his phone and all its sundry notifications, which included two new messages from Ryan Ross.

Which said: [ _hey!_

 _Brendon. Wait this is brendon isn't it_ ]

Brendon replied: [ _yeah its me_

 _Ha ha do you need proof_ ]

When he got out of the shower, Ryan had replied: [ _haha no i’m good_ ]

Which didn’t leave a lot of leeway in replying options, so Brendon just typed [ _lol ok cool just checking_ ]

To which Ryan replied: [ _cool! Cool_ ]

And then Brendon slumped back onto the bed and started playing Crossy Road, and that had gone easier than he’d expected, and for something that’d just felt like it’d be - more, it was also a bit of a letdown. But they were definitely on civil terms now, and that was good. It wasn’t as though Brendon had expected them to go back to being familiarly friendly with each other the way they had been, anyway. Perhaps they never would be. And that was okay, because people grew up, and this was what happened to people when they grew up.

And so Brendon played Crossy Road until it did, kind of, feel okay again.

*******

Over the next month, he wrapped up album stuff and started rehearsals; he had a cinnamony, warm Christmas with Sarah, Bogart and Penny; he took time off and had a barbecue by the pool, had friends over for a Star Wars marathon. The beginning of the next year was going to be a rushed and insane, so a good idea was enjoying these moments of peace where he could. He had his New Years on the balcony with Sarah, flutes of champagne in their hands, and she kissed him fondly when the clock struck twelve, then headed inside, yawning; they were old people now, apparently, because Brendon was feeling slightly sleepy as well.

Alone on the balcony, he stared out at the skyline; LA was golden and fireworky, explosions in the darkness, alive in a way only a excited, beloved city could be. Sometimes, these days, Brendon realised he was almost thirty and felt it, too, which was as strange a feeling as any, worse when slightly nostalgic and tipsy, and to get rid of it he'd turned to follow Sarah in when a chime in his pocket gave him pause.

[ _happy new yeaaaaarrrrrr_ ], Ryan had typed, along with a fireworks emoji and a balloon emoji.

[ _nice emojis_ ], Brendon replied before he could think about it, because Ryan, creative writing major, had been pretentious as fuck about these kinds of things.

[ _shut up its 2016, angry face emoji_ ]. Probably drunk.

[ _happy new year ryan_ ], Brendon told him.

[ _have a gd one brend_ ]. Definitely drunk. Brendon kind of grinned, and went to bed.

*******

The third time, then, was this: after a month of publicity for the album, pre recorded interviews and live shows and signings and so many, many pictures. Too many. An unbidden recollection: Ryan, smeared mascara on his cheek and sleeve, after a day of unending photoshoots, laughing: _who wants to see this much of my face_?

It was on the tail end of this memory that Brendon exited the cinema with Tom, waved goodbye and turned to his own cab. He contemplated the screen for a bit, and typed: [ _u watch deadpool yet? AWESOME_.]

Ryan took longer to reply this time; by the time the cab turned into the neighbourhood Brendon had stuffed the phone back in his pants, but by the time he’d finished paying there was a chime: [ _hilarious. Fucking hilarious._

 _the anal jokes. My kind of guy_ ]

[ _your kind of humor definitely_ ]

[ _YOURS TOO ahahahha_ ]

Brendon watched the three dots flicker until he realised he’d been standing in his driveway staring at his phone for four minutes and there’d probably be a headline on TMZ in a bit: Panic! Frontman Having Mental Breakdown On Front Lawn. Sarah was on her laptop when he came in; she waved and pointed over to the microwave.

“Unless you’ve eaten,” she said. “In which case, gimme. I could use some more of that tofu. They do it so well.”

“Nah, I’m hungry,” Brendon said. His phone gave a chime.

“Who is it?” Sarah asked absently, already back on Youtube.

“Oh. Ryan, I think,” Brendon said. He fished it out. Ryan had sent: [ _you into superheroes now???_ ] which seemed an absurdly short text for how long the dots had been onscreen. “Yeah, like. He’s seen Deadpool.”

“That’s nice,” Sarah said. “I bet you were too embarrassed to tell him you’ve seen it four times.”

“I know I didn’t tell you about the third time,” Brendon said. “How do you find out about these things?”

She huffed out a laugh at him, and said: “Come and watch this video of women trying vibrating panties for the first time,” which didn’t answer his question at all, but he got his plate of tofu and rice, and came and watched it.

Later, he replied: [ _it was cap america that did it_ ]

Ryan sent back the cry laughing emoji, and [ _was it the abs or the bucky_ ]

[ _both_ ], Brendon texted back. [ _Both_.]

[ _i’d go for thor anyday_ ], Ryan replied, which meant Brendon had to make fun of him going for hammer size over anything, which meant Ryan saying he wasn’t sorry about it, and also god-like stamina. They stayed up a bit texting back and forth about who was probably going to die in the Civil War (Ryan said Tony, and perhaps he was right, but Brendon wasn’t going to admit it) and whether they were going to watch Batman vs Superman ( _[overrated] [yep. incredibly]_ ), and then Ryan said [ _goodnight_ ], alongside a smiley face, and Brendon answered: [ _you using emojis still freaks me the fuck out_ ], and [ _goodnight_ ], and he clambered into bed and kissed Sarah goodnight and she patted his cheek sleepily, and perhaps - just maybe - Spencer wouldn’t have the wedding awkwardfest he’d been warning Brendon against.

So things were good, really.

*******

And then he had that interview, which was - well, the guy had been sort of - all _poor guy, he must hate you being all well known now_ or whatever, and if Brendon knew something he knew that Ryan, for all he was and had been, wasn’t petty in that way, and also an old part of Brendon still automatically flared up in defense, and he said something like, _I don’t think any of us want to be each other,_ and _yeah, we text about movies sometimes_ , or something of the sort.

[ _we don’t text about movies_ ], Ryan sent him later, [ _laughing emoji_ ].

[ _we did_ ], Brendon replied, and watched the grey dots for a while before Ryan wrote back: [ _you free??_ ]

[ _got an hour till my next one_ ], Brendon typed, and then had a sort of out of body experience as he watched [Ryan Ross] flashing over and over on his screen.

“Hey,” he said when he picked up, and was inordinately proud of himself for sounding nonchalant about it.

“Hey,” Ryan said. And then there was silence a beat too long, and Ryan laughed. “Oh, god, this is awkward.”

“Saying it’s awkward just makes it more awkward,” Brendon said. “So, like, thanks for that.”

“Please don’t be deadpan at me, I’m doing my best,” Ryan said.

“In my defense,” Brendon said, “humour is how I cope with uncomfortable situations, and you know that,” and the thing was, he sounded exactly like _Ryan_ , and it was weird, was the thing, it was weird that they hadn’t talked in almost - god, almost a decade, just the odd twitter reply before everything had petered out, and then the party where it hadn’t really been Ryan, just a dude in a gremlin costume with the music turned up so loud you couldn’t really hear much, and now he was talking to him properly, first time in almost a decade, and he sounded exactly - exactly like Ryan.

Was the thing.

“How about,” Ryan suggested, eventually, after another too-long pause, “we talk about movies,” and Brendon held the phone away from his ear and took a deep breath, and then he said: “My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2,” and Ryan replied instantly: “It’s _never_ going to be as good as the original.”

“I forgot how pretentious you were about these things,” Brendon told him. “I’d hoped that side of you died when the emoji using Ryan was born.”

“Will you get _over_ that?” Ryan asked.

“Not anytime in the near future,” Brendon said, and breathed out, and in again, easier.

*******

He told Sarah that he was talking to Ryan again, sometimes, about music documentaries and superhero films and his dog that he loved too much to be healthy, which Brendon could understand because he would probably never be right again if he lost Bo or Penny now, and she nodded and said _I told you it wasn’t a problem_ , and Brendon loved her so very dearly in that moment.

He told Spencer he was talking to Ryan again, sometimes, about movies and their dogs but not about the music they were doing, never about the music, and Spencer nodded and said _that’s good, that’s probably for the bes_ t, and Brendon didn’t ask what Ryan had said about it, or if he’d said anything.

He didn’t tell Zack anything, because Zack was an asshole at the best of times and had taken Brendon’s side in the divorce and Brendon had spent many nights drunk and talking shit with him and Brendon appreciated him and everything he did, really he did, but he didn’t need him to be an asshole about this - this newly renewed, fledgling friendship thing, whatever it was.

*******

February turned into March, and Brendon was still buzzed, still fizzy and performance-high and it was three am and even Bogart had dozed off, and he usually stayed awake for Brendon until he fell asleep. Times like this even LA seemed small to him, this wonderful spread-out city that’d seemed like the entire universe when he was sixteen. Times like this it felt like almost no one really understood how everything was jazzed up, was in the palm of his hand, how he could be the person he wrote songs about, how it was _possible_ the way nothing was, much, anymore, even now when he’d almost achieved all he wanted; not in the way everything had been possible when he’d been sixteen.

He didn’t realise he was dialling the number until Ryan groggily asked: “Brendon?”

He still remembered how Ryan sounded, voice dripping with sleep, and it sounded like Ryan, still. Which made it easier to be sixteen again and ask, looking out at the city he loved, that they loved: “Do you remember-”

He’d had a memory all called up, one of their first nights after a show, him and Ryan sitting atop a dangerously high something; a wall or a fire escape or-. But now he couldn’t remember which street it was, which state; just the feeling of Ryan’s arm pressed up against him, just the sound of Ryan’s sleepy laugh as the high wore down into the night sky, and he couldn’t - he couldn’t tell Ryan that, could he.

But Ryan said: “I do. Remember.”

Ryan said: “Whatever it is, I most probably remember.”

So Brendon said, without really meaning to: “You hurt me so _much_ , you fucking asshole.”

“I know,” Ryan said. “I know. I’m so sorry. I don’t know if I’ll ever - I’m sorry, Brendon.”

“Damn right you don’t know if you’ll ever,” Brendon told him, but he was tired, now, the exhilaration slipping away as fast as the memory had. Another thing about these highs: how quickly they ended, how easily they left. A lyric for a another day, maybe. He adjusted the pillow he’d snagged from the sofa and adjusted himself more comfortably on the floor. “You’ve got a long way to go. Asshole.”

“I know that too,” Ryan agreed. “At least you’re, well. Speaking to me again.”

“Yeah,” Brendon said. “Maybe I’m stupid. I remember swearing to myself I wasn’t going to talk to you ever again.”

“I’m glad you are,” Ryan said. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Brendon said, “well. So am I, a bit, I guess. I think it was Detroit.”

“Huh?”

“We were on the rooftop. In Detroit.”

“In ‘06,” Ryan said. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Do you?” Brendon asked, and he meant it to come out challenging but he was mostly a bit sad, and very sleepy, and he hoped it hadn’t come out like that. Bogart had awoken and padded to him, and Brendon ran his fingers through his fur as he curled up beside him.

“Yeah,” Ryan said, and made a sigh like he was settling himself more comfortably into the nest of blankets and pillows he always needed to sleep, “you messed up the lines in Tables, and that was the one thing you remembered from the show, even though they loved us and you killed the part in Nails you’d been feeling weird about for weeks. And you didn’t want to go back to the hotel straightaway, and we went to a 7-11 first,” and that was how Brendon fell asleep, somewhere between one sentence of Ryan’s memory and the next.

*******

Two weeks later Ryan called him up after a Periscope, and said: “Do you still love romcoms, because Z doesn’t want to watch The Choice, and in fact she called me rude names for asking if she did, because asking her out of all our friends was sexist stereotyping, apparently.”

“I need to meet this woman again,” Brendon said, and dug out the coins he needed for the milk and the toilet paper, and in doing so almost skidded his phone out of the precarious grip of his ear and shoulder. “Oh, shit.”

“That was an invitation,” Ryan said, almost hesitant about it, “but it’s fine. I know, like, I totally get if-”

“Wait, I didn’t-” Brendon said. “Wait, no, I just almost dropped my phone. I’m putting you on hold to pay for my groceries.”

Which meant he had a few minutes to have a silent, furious debate with himself over this, but not enough time to ask Spence if he should. Or maybe he should just text him and hope to god he was online. The checkout lady, nametagged Keira, watched him dispassionately as he typed out a ferocious [ _spence should i go hangout w ryan Lol do u think its a goof idea yet or_ ], and then she watched him swear quietly when he realised Spencer wasn’t on.

“What do you think?” Brendon asked her, when she handed back his change.

“If you should go ahead and do this unspecified thing?” Keira asked.

“I’ll let you decide for me,” Brendon decided.

“If you want to,” she said, already ringing up the next customer’s purchases. “And if you don’t hurt anybody doing it. Them’s the rules.”

“I do, Keira,” Brendon said, “and I don’t, I really don’t know if I will. But I do. Thanks, Keira.”

Out in the sunlit pavement, he said: “I still love romcoms, and I thought we agreed never to voice that in public,” and listened to Ryan’s answer, voice relieved and trying not to show it, because Brendon still remembered how that voice lilted and lifted when it was happy, and because Brendon didn’t know if he wanted to do this, but in the end he was going to, anyway.

*******

Zack was lying by the pool with Penny when Brendon got back; he waved Penny’s two front paws around as a greeting, and Brendon said: “Come and help me unpack, you lazy fuck.”

“It’s your fucking house,” Zack informed him.

“And yet you act like it’s yours most days,” Brendon wondered.

Zack lazily flipped him off, then walked in. “Sarah’s with Meg, she said ‘love you and be back around six.’”

“I hate your Sarah voice,” Brendon said.

“You hate that it turns you _on_ ,” Zack mocked, still using that horrible high falsetto, because he was an asshole, and most days Brendon loved him for it, because he was an asshole too.

“So listen,” he said.

“Uh oh.”

“Like, listen,” Brendon said. “I’m gonna catch a movie with Ryan this week.”

Zack absorbed this. “Ryan who?”

“Tedder,” Brendon said, rolling his eyes. “Reynolds. God, Zack. Ross.”

Zack sighed. “I would’ve preferred Tedder.”

“You still like Ryan,” Brendon said, turning away to store the milk in the fridge. “You texted him after that whole - thing last year.”

“Ryan’s fucking great,” Zack agreed. “Ryan also fucks you up. Every time.”

“Zack-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zack said, holding his hands up, palms out. “It’s your life. I know, you stubborn shit. Just, you know. Be careful.”

“We’re just hanging out,” Brendon said. He held his hand out for Penny so he wouldn't have to meet Zack's eyes. She complied with a lick. “We aren’t going to like, brawl in the street or anything. There won’t be any, like, Panic Ex Members Punch It Out A Decade Later. It’ll be fine.”

“That’s not what I meant, but alright,” Zack said.

“Also Sarah thinks it’s a good idea,” Brendon said, “and when have you ever been right over her?”

“Yep,” was all Zack said, like the asshole he was, but then he sighed and said, “I just meant it. Be careful. Now are we gonna bowl or not?”

"I'm going to kick your ass," Brendon said.

*******

It was a cloudy day, with the slight chill of the type that permeated through the buttons of your jacket. Brendon scuffed his shoes into a pavement crack and dug his hands into his jacket and wished he’d brought a scarf and wondered if it was too late to check his hair on his phone again. Probably enough time for a quick-

“Hey!” Ryan said. Not enough time.

“Did you jog here?” Brendon asked, instead of _hi._

“Oh. No. No, I saw you from across the street and thought I was late, although I came - no, I’m not late,” he corrected himself, swiping across his phone. “You’re _early_ ,” he said, almost an accusation.

Brendon shrugged. “I’m an early person now. It’s what comes of being married to someone who thinks on time is late.”

Ryan nodded like Brendon had said something profound. “How _is_ Sarah?” he asked politely, like they were at a tea party or something.

“Sarah’s great,” Brendon said. “Sarah’s - yeah. She says hi.” She hadn’t, just have a good time, but.

“That’s nice,” Ryan said. “I never said - you know, congratulations. On the wedding.”

“Oh,” Brendon said. “Well, fuck. Thanks, I guess. Three years late. This is awkward.”

Which made Ryan shake his head and smile, and therefore made things a bit easier.

 

They got their drinks and popcorn, which Brendon wasn’t really hungry for but also he was afraid of not quite knowing what to do with his hands, so he got some anyway. Ryan still turned up his nose at Brendon’s caramel kernels. Brendon rolled his eyes at Ryan’s self-torture of jumbo salt.

“It’s like you hate yourself,” he commented.

“It’s like you think diabetes is a great idea,” Ryan shot back, and yeah, they could do this, this still-familiar argument, which carried them into the theatre and past the ads.

“I’m _actually_ going to die when I see this,” Brendon interrupted Ryan asking him if he _knew how much sugar they put in that thing_ , when the Civil War trailer came up.

“Much like Tony is,” Ryan said, and studiously avoided Brendon’s glare.

They quietened when the movie started; at least they were quiet until Brendon looked over when they were three quarters through and Ryan’s eyes were wide and sad. “Are you crying?” Brendon hissed.

“No!” Ryan said. “I’m perhaps going to, a bit,” he amended.

“This isn’t even sad, Ryan,” Brendon said, grinning a bit, perhaps.

“It’s a bit sad,” Ryan said.

“It’s pushing the sadness at me too hard. I can’t be sad,” Brendon said. “Not when there are swelling violins reminding me I have to be.”

“That’s true, the violins are a bit much,” Ryan said, sniffing and giggling.

 

Outside, Ryan said: “You cried during The Notebook.”

“I was a lot younger then,” Brendon said, dusting a stray kernel off his hoodie. “And everybody cries during The Notebook. Especially you. All four times.”

Ryan grinned. He had laugh lines now, deep and crinkled, was the most noticeable thing; not the filled-out chest and arms, not the hair. And he smiled easier, real smiles; Brendon could still tell the difference. Brendon smiled a lot, these days, but he’d gotten much better at the fake ones. He wondered if even the people he loved best could tell the difference, now.

“I had a nice time, Brendon,” he said. “We should hang out again.”

“Yeah,” Brendon said. “Yeah. This was nice.” Much easier than he’d thought it would be.

“And, like, Sarah, too,” Ryan added. “If she wants.”

Brendon blinked. “I’ll ask her,” he said, because the thought honestly hadn’t occurred to him; Sarah was one thing and Ryan another, both completely different entities in his mind.

“Alright then,” Ryan said, still smiling. “I’m off. Talk to you later,” and he was jogging back across the street. He probably _had_ run here; he was probably a gym buff now. Brendon realised he could actually ask him about it, realised that he wanted to. It was a strange feeling, but much, much nicer than the ones that had nestled in the Ryan-entity compartment of his mind for so long.

He got home and completely forgot to ask Sarah if she wanted to hang out with Ryan, because she was telling him about Liz’s new tiny precious baby boy, and he was busy saying “that’s cute,” at all the right times, because he liked tiny precious babies, but he didn’t like their tiny precious toes _that_ much.

*******

“So what d’you think?” Ryan asked, the corner of his mouth quirked.

“This is,” Brendon said. He didn’t know what to say, actually. The guest bedroom’s primary colours clashed horribly, and there was a half finished mural on one wall, which contained red-veined eyes and was a bit (a lot) creepy. All of Dottie’s stuff, leash and toy bone and blanket, was all over the floor, and so were papers containing odd bits of lyrics and chord progressions. Dottie herself had rushed past Brendon when they’d entered; “she’s weird around strangers,” Ryan said, but at least Bogart and Penny came when Brendon called, and Ryan had been trying to get her out from under the sofa for the last five minutes.

“This is,” Brendon said, “a fucking bachelor pad. Also, your fridge is empty.”

Ryan looked like he was trying not to laugh, and did anyway.

“I’m insulted, man,” he said. “I’m truly offended. This is my home.”

“It smells like Thai takeout and roses, a very weird combination,” Brendon observed.

“Why don’t you like my air freshener?” Ryan asked. “And my fridge isn’t empty!”

“Half-filled cartons don’t count.”

“You’ve just been living in domestic bliss for too long,” Ryan said, amused, taking one out. “Try some cold dim sum.”

Brendon tried some cold dim sum. They ate at Ryan’s kitchen counter for a bit, in companionable peace, until Dottie finally slunk out from her hiding spot and trotted over to Ryan. She watched Brendon mistrustfully all the time. Ryan held out a half-eaten scone that’d been lying on the table.

“This is Brendon,” said Ryan. “He’s okay.”

Dottie ignored this, scoffing down the scone instead.

“It might take some time,” said Ryan.

“I’ll win her over,” Brendon assured him.

They ended up watching the first Princess Diaries movie, always a classic, and then A Band Called Death, because Ryan had a strangely large, varied collection of depressing music documentaries where before there’d just been Abbey Road and Woodstock.

“You’re not crying,” Brendon observed when David Hackney met an untimely end and the movie came to a close with a joyful reunion. “This is sadder than Sparks, you know it is. Also it’s real life.”

Ryan shrugged. “That’s it, though. It’s real life.”

“You’re weird, Ross,” Brendon said, but he kind of got it. Better to be sad at something that wasn’t real.

*******

Becoming friends with Ryan again, it turned out, was something you could fall back into, like riding a bike; easier than he’d thought possible, given - everything that had gone down between them, all the words that had been exchanged, all the ties Brendon thought he’d severed. They didn’t talk about those last few months, and they never talked about the music they were making.

But Brendon knew which threads Ryan lurked on Reddit, now, and Ryan sent him links to weird viral Vines too early in the morning on his way to the gym, and Dottie had met Bogart for a walk, and they watched three episodes of the second season of Daredevil on the phone when Brendon was in NY after a performance and he couldn’t sleep. Ryan slept at strange hours too; one night he’d fall asleep at nine and the next Brendon would wake up to four am texts about his neighbour’s sex noises. Becoming friends with Ryan again felt deceptively easy, actually; where was the _catch_ , was the thing. But Brendon had missed him, had missed his best friend, and if the only price was not acknowledging the years of hurt, of wilfully forgetting what they had done to each other, it was okay; it was easy enough to pay.

“Z says she wants to meet you,” Ryan said, very casually.

Sarah made a shooing, _go talk somewhere else_ motion, on the phone with her aunt. Brendon walked over to the pool. “I’ve met her before,” he said. “Why are you making this sound so ominous?”

“Z takes no shit,” Ryan said. “Which is - well. Sometimes she acts like she doesn’t like people when she does. You just have to wear her down. Like you’re doing with Dottie.”

Dottie had, in fact, been persuaded into accepting a biscuit from Brendon the previous Thursday. This had been excellent progress. Brendon still felt unreasonably proud.

“Hey,” Brendon said. He paused. “What is Z to you, anyway?”

“She’s one of my closest friends,” Ryan said instantly. And then he made a sort of considering noise. “Also, we used to date. Kind of. Not really? And then sleep around, but she doesn’t anymore. She just babysits me now when she thinks I’m not looking after myself properly. She’s busy. She’s living her own life. I love her. I think you would too, if you guys hit it off.”

Brendon peered into the depths of the water. “You’re making it sound like we’re either going to loathe or adore each other.”

“Honestly,” Ryan said, “there is no middle ground with Z.”

*******

Z was sleekly blonde and elegant, legs crossed on the coffee table in front of her, when Brendon first said: “Hey,” coming into the house.

“Brendon Urie,” she said, making it sound like a throwaway comment of no big importance. “We meet again.”

“You sound like a fucking Bond villain, Z, quit it,” Ryan said, coming out of the kitchen area. “You’ve met Dan too.”

“Hey, man,” Brendon said. “Hi, Z.”

Dan smiled and nodded at him. Z surveyed him and the grocery bag full of oranges he was holding, because Ryan seriously needed some fresh fruit and vitamin C, and then she smiled, sudden and less terrifying. “Congrats on the album, man,” she said. “Come and sit.”

Brendon did as ordered. He had to move past Dan on the way over to the sofa. “You’re still so _tall_ ,” he said, wincing.

“You sound just like Ryan,” Dan said. “He never stops complaining about it.”

“My giant,” Ryan said, and Brendon wondered.

“I brought mandarins,” he said, holding them out, “for your empty fridge,” and Ryan grinned and went to keep them. Z took her legs off the table and tucked them under her. “So, Brendon _Urie_ ,” she said.

Dan settled into the armchair with an expression Brendon recognised as eager anticipation for the scene unfolding in front of him. “Yes?”

“What have you been _doing_ all these years?” Z asked. “We haven’t heard from you for ages. Take us through all three albums, go. Favourite songs, et cetera.”

Ryan dropped himself onto the floor, cross legged, and started peeling a mandarin, stuffing three into his mouth in quick succession.

“Uh,” Brendon said.

Ryan threw a seed at Z, then another, and two more. “Stop it,” he said, mouth still full. “Stop interrogating.”

“This is hardly an interrogation,” Z said, in a tone that suggested that Brendon should be grateful for these small mercies. “I’m just here to make sure he has good intentions.”

“ _Dan_ ,” said Ryan.

“Z,” said Dan.

“Like, stealing your unintelligible music and making off with it,” Z said. “Robbing you of your guitars in the middle of the night. You do come with good intentions, don’t you?” she leveled at Brendon.

“...Yeah,” Brendon said, because it was the same thing Zack had meant, and he couldn’t blame her for it. “Yeah, I do, actually.”

“See?” Z announced, smiling in a very satisfied way. “Simple as that.”

 

Dan and Z had gone to catch a friend’s gig, and sunset colours, fiery and warm, were sliding through Ryan’s doors. “They’re a bit protective,” Ryan said, clearing mugs off the table. “Say I don’t have any sense of self preservation.”

“Well, you don’t,” Brendon said.

Ryan slanted a smile at him. “Take their side, why don’t you.”

“Are you and Dan...” Brendon said, and hesitated.

“No,” Ryan said. “We fuck sometimes, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Brendon said. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, watching him.

Brendon started picking up bits of orange peel. “I think your friends are great. Just so you know.”

“I know,” Ryan said, smiling around a recollection, or many of them. Brendon suddenly wished he’d been part, even a bit, of those memories. It was pretty useless thinking now, but he’d never wanted it to be over. He’d never wanted to lose his best friend the way he had. “Most of the time, anyway,” Ryan continued, “when they’re not busy being weird to my new - to the people I hang out with.”

His hair flopped over his eyes when Brendon looked at him. “I’m hardly a new friend,” he said.

“That’s not what I - it’s just,” Ryan said, and he shook his head, but not at Brendon. “We _are_ friends now, aren’t we? Like you don’t hate me anymore, do you, and are just doing this ‘cause Spence ordered you to?”

Brendon thought about saying that he’d never hated Ryan, but this wasn’t true. He’d hated him for breaking his heart. He’d hated him for years, because it was easier than any other horrible heartbroken emotion, and infinitely better than forgetting. Instead, he said: “We’re fucking friends, Ross,” and watched Ryan’s relieved smile under the fall of his hair.

“You should come and hang out with Zack,” Brendon told him. He’d have to have a word with Zack first, and promise him a bunch of things involving liquor beforehand to make him behave, but Ryan should. He’d get Spencer to come along. Spencer was Switzerland.

“Sarah, too,” Ryan said, “I haven’t seen her since October.”

“I’ll ask her,” Brendon promised, but by the time he got home it’d slipped his mind.

*******

Instead he planned the outing with Zack and Spencer, which found them the following week at a bar, Brendon hissing last minute reminders at Zack to be nice, Spencer grinning down at his beer.

“What?” Brendon demanded.

“Oh, it’s just funny, is all,” Spencer said. “That you’re the one telling people to play nice with Ryan now. How the turns have tabled.”

“I don’t know what I did,” Brendon wondered, “to deserve friends like-”

“Hey,” Ryan said, unwinding his blue scarf and smiling down at them. “Hey, Zack.”

“Sup, man,” Zack said, pleasantly enough. Ryan grinned at Brendon, wrapped an arm around Spencer’s neck, sat down.

“How’ve you been?” he enquired of Zack.

“Oh, pretty good,” Zack said, perusing the menu. “My boy here got me a number one album on Billboard, isn’t that great?”

“Zack,” Brendon said, smiling pointedly.

“I know,” Ryan said, just as politely. “I congratulated him on it.”

“Did you?” Zack asked. “Remembered his number, did you?”

“I think I’ll have the Peking duck,” Spencer said thoughtfully.

“Let’s just,” Brendon said. “Just. What’s a neutral topic? It’s been weirdly chilly lately.”

“No, it’s just this table,” Spencer said. Brendon thought about aiming a kick at him, out of sight.

Ryan ran a hand through his hair. “You can say it, Zack,” he said, levelly. “Whatever it is.”

Zack tipped his chair back on all fours. “I just think it’s strange how you waltz in here suddenly after so long, acting like nothing’s-”

“So what if I’m _trying_ to-”

Brendon looked around the smoky, crowded room desperately for assistance. The bar was full, and not one person offered him any.

“ _Peking duck_ ,” Spencer said, firmly, still looking at his menu. “Brendon likes Peking duck. You know who we’re all here for? Brendon.”

Ryan looked at Spencer, who looked right back at him for a long moment, and something passed between them. Then he darted a look at Brendon. He exhaled, and let go of the scarf he’d been clenching. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Yeah, um. Let’s get a drink. Um, I’m going to get a Sprite.”

When he was gone, Brendon said: “Zack, man.”

Zack looked the tiniest bit repentant, which meant he still looked like an asshole, because he was Zack. But Brendon could tell. “Right,” he said. “Yeah, yeah. Civil.”

Brendon refilled Spencer’s glass in thanks, because he did have better friends than he’d thought; friends who would constantly surprise him. Ryan came back with a drink for Zack, who tipped it towards him in acknowledgment of the truce. The rest of the night flowed better; they talked old friends doing new gossip-worthy things, always a safe topic. Brendon and Spencer had the Peking duck, and Ryan ordered carbonara and stole duck off Brendon's plate and pretended he didn't and was fine with his fancy French dish.

A better night that Brendon had expected, actually.

 

Later, Ryan leaned against the streetlight, waiting for his cab. Brendon had wanted to lounge the way Ryan did since he was sixteen, and told him so.

Ryan smirked. “It’s a talent.”

“Sorry about-” Brendon said, and waved in the general direction Zack had gone.

“I deserved that,” Ryan said, shrugging, and looked away. “And honestly, I expected worse.”

Brendon didn’t know what to say to that. The lamp gave Ryan’s face a golden glow as he looked up at the sky.

“The trick is to act like your back doesn’t hurt from the terrible posturing,” Ryan said. “Because it doesn’t matter as long as you look cool.”

Brendon grinned. “I knew the sunglasses were hiding your grimace,” he said.

"It doesn't matter as long as you look cool," Ryan maintained.

*******

On his birthday, Brendon was in a hotel room in Vancouver for a set, and woke up to his phone buzzing. Probably Sarah, who was the kind of person who set an alarm to wish people happy birthday, but when he squinted at the red numbers of the alarm clock, they read 22:20.

“Hey,” he said, confused with sleep, “hey, hey. What’s up?”

“Happy birthday, old man,” Ryan said. He sounded kind of tinny and far away.

“Fuck you, I’m not the one turning thirty this year,” said Brendon, thumping back onto his pillows. “What’s up? I said I was turning in early.”

“I decided to give you your birthday present early,” said Ryan. “So.”

This was his slightly nervous voice; Brendon would recognise it. “It’s not phone sex, is it,” he said. “Because-”

“Ugh, Bren,” Ryan said, and he was definitely nervous, because he’d been very careful about not using that old nickname since they’d started talking again. “Just - so listen. I wrote a song, and it goes kind of like-” and there was faint guitar strumming, and Brendon understood why he sounded faraway; speakerphone. “Goes kind of like that, at first. All sweet and gentle, and then it gets rhythmic and kind of thumpy, G pause C, G, and then _so far so far, so far you’ve tread, so far, so far back into this bed_ , and then the chorus hits, high up, and you’re the only one who can sing it. _Clear flights of fancy, wings raw bitten_. Because I wrote it for you.”

“Oh,” Brendon said. “Ryan.”

“It’s really kind of great, actually,” Ryan said hurriedly, “if I do say so myself. Because this time, I don’t know. I was writing for you, for your voice, instead of what I thought would sound pretty, instead of this pre-imagined idea of what it would - I know I fucked up a lot with this. I never meant to make you feel like - I _am_ sorry. It’s your song. Happy birthday.”

“Ryan,” Brendon said again.

“Yeah,” Ryan said quietly, and a little closer, like he’d brought the phone to his ear.

“How does the chorus go?” Brendon asked, and Ryan sang it, low and clear, and Brendon repeated it back to him, alone in his hotel room with the view of Vancouver and the lyrics Ryan had written for him for company, and Ryan, because he was Ryan, said, “maybe go a little higher on the _tee-e-eeth_ \- sorry, sorry, force of habit,” and Brendon shook his head and grinned to himself a bit too wide and said, “Like this? _Jaws, jaws, stained glass tee-e-eeth_ ,” and Ryan said, “yeah, actually that’s - that’s so good.”

“It’s kind of a great song,” said Brendon, once silence had lapsed and Ryan’s voice had gone a bit hoarse.

“It’s yours,” said Ryan. “You can, like, whatever. Put it on the new album, or not, or.”

“Have you been writing a lot?” Brendon asked, because apparently this dam had burst.

“Oh - well,” Ryan said. “I never really stop, you know that. But recently I’ve been able to finish some, which is always nice.”

Brendon held the phone away, and breathed in. Then he said: “You wanna play me one or two sometime?”

Ryan paused. Brendon imagined him in his lounge, fiddling with the strings of his guitar. Maybe breathing in, too. It was a comforting thought, not being the only one worried he’d fuck this up again. They were so _careful_ around each other for a reason.

“As soon as you come back from fucking Canada,” Ryan promised.

 

At twelve exactly, Brendon’s phone, which he’d been fucking around playing AStacka with, rang: Sarah this time, dependable and predictable and loved.

“Hey, babe,” Brendon said.

“Happy birthday,” Sarah said, "I'm going to sing now," and she did, all terrible and off-key on purpose to make Brendon smile.

"I keep saying you're the one who should be pursuing a career in music, not me," Brendon told her when she was done.

"And I keep saying that it's fine for me to put my dreams of pop-stardom on hold so you can achieve yours, honey," she sighed.

"I love you very much," Brendon said, and meant it. "Just so you know."

"Brendon," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Never mind," she said, after a moment. "I love you too. When you come back you should take me on a proper date. We haven't in ages."

*******

He flew back the next day, seven hours earlier than he’d meant to, and told the cab driver to take him to Ryan’s place. Dan answered the door, and Brendon said: “Oh, if you’re-,” and then realised he had no idea how he wanted to finish that sentence.

Dan looked at him quizzically. “Hey, man, Ryan’s in his room, I was just going to go,” he said, and seemed pretty dressed, so Brendon mostly stopped wondering if he should backtrack right the fuck now. “Where’s my jacket. Ryan, where’s my fucking jacket?” he called.

“I don’t fucking know, you weren’t even wearing one,” Ryan hollered back.

Dan rolled his eyes. “He was doing laundry, I’ll probably find it in his closet a week later. See you ‘round,” he said, waving.

Brendon dropped the bag of apples onto the kitchen counter, and headed up to Ryan’s room.

He’d only had a cursory glance on the tour Ryan had given him, and hadn’t seen it much since, but it was by far the homiest, most lived-in looking room in the house; huge hotel-sized bed, Ryan-sized nest of blankets and pillows. Window overlooking the pool, soft warm pastel paint. There was, Brendon realised, a print of the Pretty.Odd album cover on a wall, the only thing he’d hung up. Ryan was on his bed, folding laundry. It was so - it was so weirdly domestic. Brendon couldn’t reconcile this Ryan, this older, grown up, laugh-lined Ryan to this sort of household mundanity, but here it was.

Ryan hadn’t noticed him yet. His hair was falling in his eyes, and he was humming, one earbud in his ear. He looked peaceful. It was too-

“Hey,” Brendon said.

Ryan looked up. He startled, the tiniest bit, and grinned, lines by his eyes more pronounced than ever. “You weren’t supposed to come back til night, fucker.”

“Caught an early flight,” Brendon said, nonchalant about it. “Thought I’d check in. Also, I want to hear the songs.”

Ryan shook his head. “Of course you did,” he said, and he was still grinning; even wider now, if possible. “Lemme get my guitar.”

Brendon didn’t sit on the bed; he went over to the chair next to the window. He could imagine Ryan waking and going over to curl up on this chair, sunrise and coffee. Ryan came back with the guitar and a sheaf of papers, and settled on the bed and said, hesitantly, “you gotta - sing along, right, ‘cause when I wrote it I never really could - you can go that high.”

“I was planning on singing along,” Brendon said.

The songs were easy, honeyed and mellow, but they all had that Ryan twist of - not exactly cynicism, but world-weariness all the same, love songs with a dash of eyes-open verisimilitude and wrapped in a literary reference. Ryan started singing, clearing his throat a few times at first, pointing out to Brendon: _this is supposed to go here, I’m not sure about this note,_ and _cuckoos, that’s a cliche if there ever was one_ , and then he sang the chorus again, and Brendon sang along, _if one ever flew overhead where I dwelled_ , and watched Ryan’s face relax into a smile.

He’d missed this. More than he could ever admit. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the window, and this was the _rightness_ he remembered when everything was easy and untainted. He’d missed this.

“You staying for dinner?” Ryan asked, later.

“No,” Brendon said, but he wanted to, he wanted to go out back under the night sky and sing until his voice was raw and Ryan’s eyes were closed and his mouth was quirked, pleased with how his words were meant to sound, content with how Brendon was turning them alive. That expression hadn’t changed, either.

“I have to get home,” he said, instead.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan agreed. “Yeah, just - catch you later?” He lay his guitar on the bed, and the spell was broken. Brendon fought the slight urge to shake his head like a dog coming out of water.

“Yeah,” Brendon said, and left the room while he still could.

*******

He went home instead, and Sarah hugged him, and Brendon made reservations at her second favourite restaurant.

“The, uh, sesame grilled salmon,” Sarah requested.

“Sesame,” Brendon said, shuddering.

“Don’t sesame-shame,” Sarah said. She was lovely tonight, soft brown hair in waves about her face, dangling emerald earrings, slinky green dress.

“I don’t know how you manage to have impeccable taste in everything but like sesame, is all I’m wondering.”

“It’s not like I’m asking you to eat it,” she said, exasperatedly amused.

He grinned. “I love you, did you know that?”

“I did, in fact,” she said. “So. How was Canada?”

“Big. Cold,” Brendon said. “And big. How were Riley and Ange?”

“Oh, good,” Sarah said. “They’re starting their second IVF round tomorrow.”

“Everybody’s having babies,” Brendon remarked absently, thinking of a line in one of Ryan’s new songs: _pro-gen-y, but never belonging to you_.

“Mhm,” Sarah agreed. She twisted the ring on her left hand. “That’ll be us someday.”

Brendon said: “Uh-huh. Maybe.”

Sarah had caught the pause. She knew him better than anyone did; she knew he went to watch movies he liked multiple times over. She might not know when he was geuninely smiling, anymore, but she had caught the pause. “Someday, right?” she said again.

“Maybe, right?” Brendon said. “That’s what we said.”

“No,” Sarah said, “no, I said. One day, and you agreed.”

“We don’t have to talk about this tonight,” Brendon said. “Look, babe, this isn’t a problem-”

“You love kids,” said Sarah. “Brendon. You do.”

“I do.” Brendon did. He did. It just- “I just don’t really know if we need to have our own, you know?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah said. She inhaled, sharply. “You can’t just - I feel like I’ve hardly seen you, lately, and then you come back from fucking Canada and tell me you never want kids? Brendon. What’s going on.”

“I didn’t say never,” Brendon said, defensive. “I said. Maybe never.”

From the look on Sarah’s face, this wasn’t the greatest alternative.

*******

It was late when Brendon reached the place, voice raw and too many words replaying themselves in his head. Ryan answered the door in grey sweatpants, and said, surprised-sounding: “Hey.”

“Have you ever wanted kids?” Brendon asked.

Ryan moved past to let him in. “I don’t think I could ever - trust myself to not fuck them up,” he said, carefully.

“I don’t want kids,” said Brendon, and felt vicious, sad triumph to finally say it out loud. “I don’t think I ever - at all. I just don’t.”

“Does Sarah?” Ryan asked.

“Yes,” Brendon said, and he lay down on the stupid floor and stared up at the ceiling. “Very much.”

Dottie came over cautiously and licked at his cheek. “Hi, Dot,” he said, quietly. “Hey.” She pressed her head against his ribs, in what Brendon liked to think was comfort.

“That sucks,” Ryan said, softly, from somewhere at the door, still.

Brendon gave a one-armed shrug. “Yeah, well,” he said. “Love sucks,” and he groaned at how much of a cliche he’d become.

“Doesn’t it, though,” Ryan agreed.

“I’ll drink to that,” Brendon suggested, and when Ryan didn’t move, “Ryan. That was your cue.”

Ryan laughed, a bit. “I’m going, I’m going,” he said, and he returned with a wine bottle and a beer. “You can drink from the bottle,” he said. “I know you aren’t fancy.”

Brendon looked at him.

“I’m sticking to beer,” Ryan said, smiling ruefully. “My version of cold turkey.”

 

Half a bottle down, and Brendon said, “It really isn’t - I still feel like a kid, most days.”

“I get that,” Ryan said. “I do.”

“Maybe one day,” Brendon said, testing it out on his tongue. It didn’t taste great. “But not - no. I don’t think so.”

“What are you going to do?” Ryan asked. He’d sat himself down on the floor opposite Brendon, against the sofa, cross-legged.

“I don’t know.”

“You could - I don’t know. Compromise? Adopt an older kid.”

“She wants a baby,” Brendon said. “She wants her own baby. She wants to raise it with me.” He closed his eyes, replayed her expression when he’d said _never_.

“Yeah,” Ryan said, because there was nothing else to say.

“I love her,” Brendon said. “I’ve only ever wanted to make her happy. That’s the least she deserves.”

“Love sucks that way,” Ryan said. “Or at least I would think. I only ever loved, like, one person. I’m not an expert.”

Brendon, eyes closed and lying on the ground, had the distinct sense of falling from a great height.

“Who?” he asked, slowly.

Ryan sounded uncomfortable. “Don’t - you know who.”

Brendon took a deep breath. And another. He was still falling, it felt. And then he said, disbelievingly, “Fuck you.”

“Brendon-” Ryan said, but Brendon opened his eyes and sat himself upright. “ _Fuck_ that, Ryan Ross. You can’t just say-”

“I told you I loved you!”

“In songs,” Brendon said. “Vaguely, wrapped up in fucking metaphors. You never actually said, hey, man, I just might reciprocate those feelings you made so stupidly _obvious_ for years-”

“You write things in songs too!” Ryan argued. “You’ve been writing all these songs-” He looked away, and bit his lip, and when he looked back at Brendon, he looked miserable. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” Brendon said. “God, you couldn’t have loved me, you hurt me _so_ much.” He laughed, incredulously, and it sounded dangerously close to hysteria. “ _God_ , Ryan.”

“I know I did,” Ryan said. “I know, Brendon. I was fucked up, and I didn’t know what I was doing, and I didn’t want to - but I did, and I lost, I’m _so_ -”

“Tell me,” Brendon ordered him. “Tell me.”

“The day at the arcade,” Ryan told him, without pausing to think about it. “And you won a bear, a fluffy pink one, and you gave it to me, and you had candyfloss on your chin, and you were so happy, because we were going to tour the world together. _Brendon_ -”

Brendon had consciously chosen bitterness over misery a long time ago, so he didn’t realise he was crying until Ryan had come over, to his side, too close, and carefully touched a thumb to his cheek. “Bren,” he was saying, sounding wretched. “Brendon.”

That had been twelve _years_ ago.

“I fucking _hate_ you,” Brendon said, gasping a bit. “Ryan Ross.”

Ryan pressed gentle knuckles to his fringe, swiping it away from his face. “I know,” he agreed. “I know.”

Brendon hadn’t - god, since one of those last nights, when everything was going to shit and he was too young and before he swore to himself he wasn’t going to cry over anybody like that again. Ryan’s shoulder was warm and Brendon hid his face there - out of force of habit, because it was solid and unmoving and he was still kind of tumbling down an unending abyss.

“It’s okay,” Ryan said, running his fingers through his hair, “it’s alright,” even though it really wasn’t, it wasn’t, but Ryan ran his fingers through his hair and Brendon’s breaths evened out eventually, and he must have drifted into unconsciousness, because the next thing he knew was Ryan whispering, “I don’t know if you’re asleep, or if it counts for anything, but I still - I still do.”

And then he did fall asleep for real, and woke up in the morning with cold toes and his head on Ryan’s chest, and Dottie sniffing curiously at his palm.

He untangled himself cautiously from Ryan’s arm, wrapped around his waist. Ryan looked peaceful in sleep, angelic almost, not like someone who’d fucked Brendon’s life upside down yet again. He didn’t stir.

Brendon stood up and stepped back and watched him sleep. He’d loved him so _much_. He loved-

This was his first love, the first problem Sarah had fixed. They’d thought she had. They’d been wrong. Zack had been right, for once; wouldn’t he gloat? Gloat, and then kill him. Zack was going to kill him. He loved Sarah.

And Brendon loved Sarah, he did. He loved her safety, her kindness, the shape of her shoulder in the dark. He loved her because she saved him. He loved her because he had to, because without her he was that helpless kid again with a broken heart.

If Brendon had any sense of self preservation at all, he’d leave this house right now and never come back. This was always going to happen; this had always been what was going to happen since October, once Ryan had said, _nah, I changed my number, got a new one now, do you-?_

And this was why it had been so easy.

Because this was the catch.

And maybe all roads would lead to Ryan for him. And this was the problem.

And maybe it wouldn’t have been a problem. But Brendon had always been the kid who made scabs of his chickenpox.

He took a deep breath in, and told his feet to move.

**Author's Note:**

> (a significantly shorter) part 2 cleans up the mess this fic makes, but i'm squinty eyed about posting it unless people like this aaa


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